May Day

Hawthorn, Bride of May,

That flighty damsel.

Her syrup-sweet perfume

As potent as incense,

From blossoms – dancing

Maids scattering petals;

The creamy confetti

Swirling to music

Of giddy, jigging gusts,

Joyful, waltzing breezes.

Offering wishes,

Merry-making. Honey

Moons. The future – Summer,

Fall – feast for home birds,

When weak leaves loosen ties,

And berry beads glisten

Amongst the black thorns;

Needles now hidden

Under the nuptial skirts,

Knitting lace petticoats.

A good wife passes,

Plucks a darling bud,

Holds it to nose and throat,

And pockets it for luck,

Before she heads back

To keep house for her hard-

Headed, hard-working spouse.

He contracts ‘Des Res’

For newly-weds going

Up in their bright new world.

Where the bride now stands

A perfect square green turf

Will lie. Dandelions,

Buttercups, daisies

Forbidden to smile,

Defile the private patch

Where the hawthorn went down.

┬ęPamela Turton 2018